


The Tales Of The Avatars

by Urbenmyth



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: New Avatars Added As They Show Up, Spoilers for The Magnus Archives Season 5, statement fics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:35:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27784576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Urbenmyth/pseuds/Urbenmyth
Summary: There are a lot of statements we didn't see. A lot of Avatars we only saw one side of.Here are some familiar faces, as seen from other perspectives. You can't move through life without touching someone.Especially if you embody their nightmares.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 21





	1. Jonah Magnus- Those Who See

**Author's Note:**

> CW- suicide, loss of loved ones, deception, betrayal, impostors.

**Statement Number #######. Statement Of Victoria Bouchard, regarding a man claiming to be her husband Elias. Statement given 12/01/97. Statement not officially recorded. Statement read by The Archivist, date ######**

**Statement Begins.**

I need you not to let the man calling himself my husband read this. I need you to keep it from him.

I don’t know what you can do to help me, but I need you to do that.

I’m sure you know, but I met Elias when at uni. We were both 19 at the time. He was a bit of a pothead, yes, a bit up himself. But he was kind, and generous, and handsome. So we fell in love. We first kissed at a party with...you don’t need to know that. Sorry. I’m rambling.

Anyway, when we were dating properly, his parents told him he had to get a job. He chose here. Basically at random. He told me all the stories about horrors he found here, “spine-chilling terrors of the monsters the world doesn’t know”. He never believed in them, not really. He told me it was all bunk when he wasn’t joking about them. Most of them had rational explanations, and those that didn’t, we just had to look harder.

Which is why I was so worried when he started talking about something watching him.

It was shortly after the wedding that he started to see them. Eyes, bright blue, visible in the shadows or behind him in his reflection or watching from the corner of the room. I never saw anything, but he was insistent.

He was so scared. He covered the windows, he even brought a gun. He didn’t know how to _use_ it, but he brought one. We called the police, but they found no signs of intruders.

I thought it was stress, maybe? A marriage is stressful, even if you’re not meant to say, and well. He _did_ do a lot of stuff as a younger man. Maybe some lingering effect? I suggested he go to therapy, but he insisted he was fine. And he didn’t seem irrational or distressed or, you know, crazy. Just scared.

But still, he was certain. Something was watching him all the time. Something with bright blue eyes.

I helped where I can, provided emotional support and so forth, but I had nothing concrete until I asked the institute. And that’s when I found James Wright. He’d started cutting eyes out of his books then, and I was worried I’d have to call real help whether he liked it or not, but James offered his help first.

Such a kind old man. I’d met him a few times, but Elias spoke so fondly of him. Always knew what to say, you know? He took Elias seriously while the others just rolled their eyes at a scared upper class toff. He came around a few times, looked over the house, told him what he could do to protect himself. A lot of his stuff seemed like mystic nonsense, but the eyes did vanish after his glyphs were put up, so I guess it worked.

I hear he died?

Shortly after…

I think whatever got my Elias got him too.

Sorry. Ahead of myself.

He was working late that night. Some story about a thing that can only be seen at night. Apparently it was invisible in the light, and when...sorry. Off topic. I keep feeling the urge to tell you...sorry. Anyway, I knew something was wrong when the phone rang. This was 3am, so I was furious, until I heard his voice. He was so scared. I’d known him 11 years, and he’d never been that scared before. Ever. 

He was rambling about eyes, and I asked him what was wrong. He hyperventilated, and I tried to talk him through it. Said it would be ok. He stopped, and then he told me that he loved me. That he really loved me.

Then the line went dead.

I panicked, of course, called the police. At first I was so relieved when they found him, alive and well. He apologized for the call- apparently he’d just got freaked out? He laughed, and I laughed, but I’d never seen him be that scared. Certainly not over just an archiving job alone at night

He threw himself into his work, after that. He was...colder. He wouldn’t touch me at night, and I’d see him looking into the distance, this grin on his face. He laughed at in-jokes and stories but in such an artificial way. As if he hadn’t lived through them. As if he’d just heard about them. Everything he did was reading a script

Elias had never been much into horror or tragedy, but I’d catch him late at night, watching these horrible movies on the TV. Just staring at them. I asked him, and he said they were just movies he didn’t think I'd like but...I’ve never seen special effects that good. And he didn’t look scared. He didn’t even look thrilled. He looked _hungry_.

Still. I kept trying to keep up the helpful wife thing. After all, he was my husband. I asked him sometimes what had happened that night, but he wouldn’t explain. He said he didn’t want to talk about it, and I didn’t want to push. Maybe I should have.

It was after his promotion to head of the institute. I told him I was proud of him, that we could do something to celebrate maybe. And he said we should get a divorce.

I looked at him, and he repeated himself. The new job was a lot of work, you see. He didn’t want to be neglectful, best we ended it here. The speech was comforting and well thought out and it was not my Elias speaking. 

I looked, and I finally saw it. It was so obvious. I don’t know how I missed it.

Elias had brown eyes. But this man? His eyes were blue.

The brightest blue I’ve ever seen.

I grabbed the plate and swung at him. Screamed at him to tell me where my Elias was. He went down and yelled in pain. I hit him again, and he just looked up at me, and snarled “Stop.”

I couldn’t move. It felt like...like a deer in headlights. Like I was on stage and paralysed before the audience. Like eyes were gazing so hard at me I couldn’t breath.

He got up, and started to open his mouth, and I knew. I knew I couldn’t hear what he was about to say.

I hit him again, as hard as I could, and ran.

I’ve been hiding at a friend’s, but he’s been calling there. I didn’t tell anyone, and she swore to secrecy. don’t know what to do.

Don’t tell him I talked to you but...please. That’s not my husband. That’s something else. I don’t know what you can do, but if nothing else, I need you to know. That’s not elias. That’s something else.

Something cold and terrible, with bright blue eyes.

**Statement Ends.**

Well.

It’s been a long time since I actually _read_ a statement. It’s not as...satisfying? I suppose when you have fresh food, packaged meals aren’t as impressive.

Another statement sent by Jonah to taunt me. Another statement that, if I had it, could have let me put the pieces together. Gertrude never saw this either. He took it and hid it away. He didn’t destroy it.

He must have been waiting for the opportunity to gloat. He had similar ones for James Wright, and Daniel Cifelli, and…

Even the most disconnected person has _someone_ who misses them.

Victoria Bouchard kept “harassing” the institute after this, sending letters, calling, showing up in person. Insisting they were keeping Elias hostage somewhere. She burnt all her bridges on the cause of saving her husband.

She killed herself. Jonah gave her the knowledge of her husband's last moments of terror and pain, and how he was dead. How she destroyed her life to find a man long dead. How he had been James Wright, and how by inviting him over she’d signed her husband’s death warrant.

So she hung herself.

Follow up is at least easier in this new world. I _suppose_ I have Jonah to thank for that.

It’s no secret that Jonah must have ruined lives, with his method of immortality. But to see it on paper…

Yet another person to avenge, then.

I am fed before the journey. It is time that we begin.


	2. Daisy Tonner- Alpha Wolf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw: police brutality, murder, canon-typical hunt schennangians, sickness and disease

**Statement number #0050411. Statement of Samuel Barrett, regarding his investigation of corruption in the London Metropolitan Police Department. Original Statement given 04/11/2005. Statement recorded by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist.**

**Statement begins**

This is going to sound like I’m justifying myself, but it’s not. I know how bad it is, I do. But its important to know. If you’re not in the force, It’s easy to underestimate just how much officers cover up their fellows. There are a lot of bad cops out there, and we do know that.

I was no exception. I’d been in the police force for, oh, 11 years when this began, and I knew plenty of my fellows who were on the take, or extreme bigots, or roughed suspects up whenever they could. It’s easy to just overlook these things, you know? They’re fellow cops, whatever else they do. You don’t bring internal investigations into this. But we all knew who the bad cops were, even if we didn’t say it.

Detective Alice Tonner was one of them.

She was one of the sectioned officers. Dealt with the weird cases. And I like to think that gave us some leeway in looking over things.

When suspects came in with bruises or wounds or worse, well, maybe they were goddamn wizards. Maybe she had to break their legs because they could control minds or something and that’s the only way to stop them. I didn’t get involved in any weird shit, so I wouldn’t know. Maybe she had to.

But then, there were a lot of cops who  _ weren’t  _ section 31 who did the same thing, and we didn’t bring up the things they did either. So I guess I was just a coward.

We just kept an eye on her. But we didn’t do anything. We didn’t try to stop her. I treated her like everyone else. The only worry was the weird stuff, not anything she did in the interrogation rooms. That didn’t affect us.

Still, it turns out even I have limits. More fool me. And that was with Shay Fisher

He was a suspect in a number of cases of attacks on people's eyes. Affiliated with...the People’s Church? The Church of the Host? Those guys, that weird cult down in the Southeast of London. And he was weird. I dunno what weird stuff he did, but he was. So we kept a wide berth, and let Tonner deal with him.

We never saw him again.

Officially, he was released and later went missing, but...he wasn’t. He wasn’t imprisoned, he was just gone. And Tonner was smiling. This strange, feral smirk. And I knew.

It turns out that, while I can excuse beating someone black and blue, outright murder of suspects is where I had to investigate.

Again, you have to understand, I couldn’t get my fellow cops in on this. They still might turn against me for betraying their own, even now. So I had to investigate quietly. I looked up files. I asked subtle questions. I tailed her. Slowly, but surely, I built up some evidence.

The weird thing, the reason I came to you?

I think I was hurting her.

She was looking oddly sickly. She didn’t get sick, all her years as a cop. I asked around, and no-one remembered as much as a cold. But since I started investigating her, she started looking pale. Feverish. And paranoid. I don’t think she was sleeping, and she kept looking around herself, almost frantically. Sometimes I'd even go so far as to say _scared_ ,

Maybe she knew I was onto her? But she never confronted me about it, and didn’t try to cover up her paper trail that I could tell. It didn’t look like she was checking if she was being followed or watched.

It looked like she was expecting something to come lunging out of the shadows at her.

It could have been a coincidence, I guess. Maybe she really was just ill. But the more I found, the worse it seemed to get. When I found video evidence of her knocking out a suspect’s teeth, hard solid evidence? I saw people around her. Apparently she’d coughed up blood. It was nothing, she’d snarled, and stalked off, but it must have happened just as I found that “deleted” CCTV.

That night, I dreamt of ripping her throat out. I woke up with specks of red on my pillow.

Still, a simple beating wouldn’t be enough to get actual punishment, sad as that is. I needed evidence she was killing people.

It felt...righteous? The thought of finally taking her down. And the dreams were getting more vivid. I almost couldn’t wait until she hurt someone enough for me to catch her. The idea of making the police trusted again was fading beneath the drive to catch her.

I didn’t have to wait long.

We got another weird case after a month.

Travis Knight. He was a stalker. And he was weird. So they sent Tonner to deal with him.

This time, I followed her. Plain clothes and plain car. It was...easier than I thought. She was an experienced cop, but she was never noticed she was being tailed. Maybe she was still sick. Or maybe I was better at it then I thought.

She went to the woods. This clearing, with no grass. I knew what that meant. She dragged Knight out the care, and shot him.

Blood didn’t come out. Just these bright, shining beetles. He just flinched, and stood up.

She swore, and shot him again. And again. He didn’t go down, and the swarming, buzzing beetles were filling the air. I stepped forwards, and a twig snapped, and she spun around. And stared at me.

“ _ You _ ”

And she lunged at me.

It wasn’t the trained combat stance of a police officer. It was something feral, all thought of Knight forgotten even as the buzzing got louder and louder. She hurled herself at me. And I ran. She was still sickly, so I ran.

Behind me, she was gaining on me. I looked over my shoulder, and her sickly appearance was fading, like it was never there. She grabbed me, tackled me to the floor.

She loomed over me, and in the moonlight, everything about her was sharp.

I tried to stagger away, to run away, and she looked down at me, healthy as she ever was. Every trace of sickness and paranoia was gone, and now there was just this primal, feral energy. Like she was restraining herself from tearing me apart right there and then.

“You going to go to internal affairs, Barrett?” She growled.

I said no. I said I’d burn the evidence. I meant it. Call me a coward, but I meant it.

She laughed, this crazed laugh I’d never heard before, and she turned. She pulled out her gun and fired. Knight had taken 3 bullets before, but this one? He went down in one shot. The beetles fell from the sky, and he slumped to the ground. Blood leaked from the wound.

We stood there, surrounded by dying beetles, and she picked me up. She’s not a small woman, not by any means, but I know she shouldn’t be  _ this  _ strong.

“Tell anyone, and you join him.”

I quit the force the day after. To the best of my knowledge, no-one ever investigated her for any more vanished suspects. She’s still working there.

I kept the promise not to tell anyone until now, because now? I don’t think it matters.

I can see her trailing me, eyes bright. Maybe she’s watching me. Making sure I don’t tell anyone. But I don’t think it’s that.

My dreams about her have changed since that night in the woods.

And now? I’m not so sure they’re dreams at all.

**Statement Ends**

Officer Barrett was reported missing a week after this statement. I could compel Daisy to tell me what happened but...I don’t need some eldritch god of knowledge to put the pieces together here. I wonder which of the graves in those woods was his.

Daisy is my friend. She’s helped me, I’ve helped her. I want to say that she’s an innocent, corrupted by the Hunt. But...that isn’t true. She tried to kill me. She did kill others. And this isn’t the only statement about her in our archives. I need to remember that she is, ultimately, a… well, a monster.

But then, I suppose, so am I. So are so many people I know now.

I wonder, sometimes. If I was a...heh. If I was a  _ wild _ monster, rather than sitting in a room letting prey come to me. I wonder how many statements there would be about me. We have one already, after all.

I wonder if I’d be like Fairchild or Jared or...or Daisy. Moving in and out of lives, bringing terror and misery everywhere I went.

I don’t think Daisy can ever truly be forgiven for the things she’s done.

But then, at this point, which of us can?

**Recording Ends**


	3. Jane Prentiss- Oathbreaker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Medical Malpractice, Trauma, Mental Illness, Canon Typical Corruption Manifestations 

**Statement Number #0131012. Statement of David Tuke, regarding his treatment of Jane Prentiss. Statement given December 10th, 2013. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.**

**Statement begins.**

I could have helped her.

I know I could have. Dependent personality disorder, severe social anxiety and neglect-related trauma. I know how to treat that. It would have been _hard_ , it would have taken _time_ . I’m not saying I could have cured her overnight, obviously. But I _could_ have helped her. She wasn’t beyond saving. She was just an ill woman who could have got better.

It violates medical confidentiality to tell you this but frankly, you getting my licence revoked is the least of my worries. I need to tell you. After everything I did, I think it’s the only thing I can do.

I’m not stupid. I know you’ll have stories about her here.

And I don’t want the only records of her to be about a monster.

I was assigned to treat Jane after her mental breakdown. About the ants. When she started pulling up the floorboards to show them to the clientele. So, she got fired, and then assigned to the early intervention mental health team.

I remember the first time I saw her. She was thin, very thin, and I could tell she hadn’t washed lately. Greasy hair, ragged clothes, odd stains on her skin. She was quiet at first, head titled as if hearing something far away, but she talked to me. She talked about love, and how lonely she was, and how she couldn’t stand the thought of the ants leaving her too.

The first sessions were effective. She’d focused on the ants as a surrogate for the love she felt she was missing- a strange reaction, but I’ve seen weirder. It was clear that she felt desperately alone, and her intense fear of rejection led to her hyperfocusing on others, ultimately tearing apart that relationship. My assumption was childhood trauma, and her reaction when I asked about her parents bore that out.

This meant I had a plan. We could work on dealing with her immediate anxiety and finding ways to relate to people in a healthier way and, once she was in a less vulnerable state, see if we could address her traumatic background. It was a long term plan, but I think telling her helped. I hope so.

It was after that second session that the insects started coming.

At first, it was somewhat minor. I brought my groceries home and they were _infested_ . I’d just bought them, and they’d _collapsed_ into writhing maggots. It was disgusting. I complained to Tesco, got a refund, and...well, you don’t expect the supernatural, do you? I must have somehow got the rotting food into my trolley without noticing it was rotting. It could happen.

It seems so stupid now. But that’s what I assumed.

I kept treating Jane. And as we made more and more progress, the infestations got more and more aggressive.

Bed bugs. Lice. Cockroaches. Flies. Wasps. Infestation after infestation. The more progress we made, the more insects swarmed into my house. Making sure food was stored properly didn’t help. Bug spray didn’t help. Exterminators didn’t help. I still thought it was a coincidence, though.

I didn’t make the connection until 5 sessions in when she had a serious setback. Another friend stopped talking to her, and she sobbed about she didn’t understand why no-one loved her. How she’d never been loved. I was very stressed and I … don’t think I helped at all, if I’m honest. She left nearly sobbing.

And my house was insect free after that session, until I managed to repair things.

Still, I wouldn’t stop helping her because of one bad session, and weird insects. I could deal with _insects_ , even as they moved in oddly precise ways. Even as they got more and more aggressive, trying to crawl into my mouth and nose. Even as their buzzing and scuttling sounded almost like songs.

Jane had reported hallucinating music. But she wasn’t psychotic, so they were likely stress induced. I decided it was easier to work on her deep rooted fears of isolation and rejection.

It was quite a few sessions in, I think, that things went truly wrong.

We’d finally got to her parents.

She flooded out that her parents had been very emotionally abusive, holding her to extreme standards and punishing her whenever she fell short of them. It was what I had expected. She’d learnt that she needed to make extreme efforts for even basic love, hence her self-destructive and self-sabotaging relationships with others.

She was very distressed afterwards, and I still worry it was too early to address this, but I think she had, for the first time, at least considered that maybe the problem was with them. It wouldn’t help now, but it was the potential to help in future. It was the first step. I said that we could wait until we felt ready to address these problems, but until then, there was no pressure. She smiled shakily.

I said goodbye, I went home. And as soon as I entered the door, I collapsed.

It was like...every sickness I’d ever had, all at once. Vomiting, pain, fever, shivering. And around the scuttling, writhing mass pouring from every corner and every crack. Pouring over me. Swarming through my hair and over my skin and into my mouth.

I lay there shuddering and whimpering when the voice spoke in my ears. It was sweet and bright and so, so deeply malicious.

“ _Ours_ ”

The sickness ebbed from debilitating to just agonising. And I realised what the threat was. I remembered the voices she’d reported, saying they’d love her. That only they’d accept her.

And if I taught her she didn’t have to depend on others for validation…

It’s easy to mess up a patient’s files enough that it will be a very long time before they got treatment. I knew at her current point, she’d see this as a deliberate betrayal by me. And she would be right. It would set her progress back years.

The symptoms cleared. The infestations stopped. And I never saw Jane Prentiss again.

Until she visited me.

It was about 6 months after this, and I went home, and there she was in my living room. The swarm was crawling _through_ her. Thick, hungry worms writhing through every orifice and several...through several new ones. Her entire body was sores and decay.

But it was still clearly her.

I expected her to kill me.

I didn’t blame her. I would have killed me if I was her.

But she didn’t.

She _thanked_ me. She said the swarm had told her what had happened and how I’d stopped her escaping them. And she _thanked_ me for that.

And she left. She didn’t take any vengeance. She didn’t think she needed to.

I could blame the swarm, I suppose. It forced me to do this. I didn’t have a choice, did I?

But… I did. I did have a choice. I could have looked up ways to fight plague monsters. I could have convinced her to fight back. I could have simply done what I could while they attacked me. I don’t know. I don’t know if it would have worked. But then, I never will now, will I?

I could have helped her. Swarms and disease aside, I _could_ have helped her.

I simply didn’t.

**Statement Ends**

Attempts to track down Dr Tuke have proved inconclusive. He was reported missing a few months after submitting this status. Whether he fell victim to Prentiss or simply suffered a mundane disappearance is unknown, and his case remains unsolved.

Anyway. Prentiss’ treatment did fall through a number of bureaucratic gaps shortly before her statement here. Direct sabotage would explain that, as well as her serious mental health collapse afterwards. This also provides some collaboration for the “song” she reported hearing.

I’d _say_ this is most likely a therapist who fell victim to selection biases. It happens. Sasha was able to confirm that yes, he suffered multiple insect infestations. If Jane was also talking about insects, well, a final serious illness from the infestations would explain everything.

It doesn’t, though. It doesn’t explain this. Just like a rare parasite doesn’t explain Jane.

I don’t know if Dr Tuke _could_ have resisted whatever force surrounded Jane Prentiss.

But he didn’t even try. And that refusal may have done more harm then he could possibly know.

It's a glimpse of humanity at the monster stalking the institute. But somehow, knowing that Jane could have been something else? That her transformation wasn't inevitable? That in another world, she could have been healthy and happy?

It doesn’t comfort me.

RECORDING ENDS


	4. The Distortion: Pied Piper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Child endangerment, Child Death, Metaphorical Child Abuse, Generally bad things happening to children, deceit and manipulation, Canon Typical Spiral Triggers.

**Statement #0170812. Statement of Tabitha Waters regarding the abductor of her daughter. Statement given 12/08/17. Statement... _found_ 09/12/17.**

**Statement Begins**

You have to help me.

I don’t know who else can help me. The police wouldn’t believe me. My wife doesn’t believe me. No-one believes me. But you? You know about these kinds of things. You understand.

You’ll believe me. I know who took my daughter.

It was her imaginary friend.

Laura was just reaching 6, so she was in her imaginative phase. She’d talk about ghosts and fairies and so forth. She was... _ is _ such an imaginative child. is. She told these little stories and…

I’m rambling. I’m sorry.

My point is, I didn’t think the Door Lady was anything to worry about.

She said that she met the Door Lady. That she lives behind a yellow door, and she comes out, and you can only see her in the mirror. And they play together.

I thought she  _ was  _ playing. As she told more and more elaborate stories. Of how the Door Lady would tell her secrets. Of how the Door Lady would bring her toys.

She did...she did get toys. She had a little toy bunny she insisted came from the Door Lady. I thought it was a friend from school or something. I didn’t think.

I...I saw that bunny. A few days ago, while Gabby was putting up missing posters. I said not to bother, that we knew who took her, and we argued, and I realised I saw the bunny.

It was a poster for another missing child. He was holding it in the photograph. I’d walked past that poster and never looked, if I’d just  _ looked… _

But I didn’t.

It was when Laura started having friends round. It was strange. She was a quiet child, she didn’t have many friends at school. So I was happy at first. But she always looked upset when someone came round after school. I heard her crying.

I...I didn’t see any of those children leave. How did I not...I must have just assumed but they didn’t and I didn’t  _ think  _ and.. I _ must  _ have seen the posters. How could I not have seen the _ posters? _

I didn’t think until the night I heard a woman’s voice talking in her room. “You can’t tell your parents about this, Laura! They won’t understand! It’ll be our little secret, Laura!”

I slammed the door open and...nothing. Nothing but Laura, looking nervously at the door in the corner.

There  _ wasn’t _ a door in the corner but I  _ didn’t _ realise, how did I not  _ realise _ ?

I was getting worried, I thought she was being...I don’t know, but I asked her. I sat her down and I asked what was going on. She had to tell me.

She looked sad and looked terrified and then she broke down crying. The Door Lady wouldn’t let her through the door.

The Door Lady had said, apparently, that there was a beautiful place. A place she could stay forever. But she would have to show she was good by showing other children the way in first.

I thought...I thought she’d gone mad. That’s what I’d thought. I thought about a child psychologist. I still hadn’t realised about the other kids.

I told her, firmly, the Door Lady wasn’t real. It was just an imaginary friend. And I called the GP to book an appointment. And I went to bed. What else could I do.

I had sleep paralysis for the first time that night. There was a yellow door, and it creaked open. And she stepped out. She looked like a normal woman, early 40s, short hair, this broad, broad smile. But I could see the reflection in the mirror. I had a curved mirror. I knew that...mattered, somehow,

She was so tall, so thin and so...sharp. Like a dangling puppet made of knives.

“You can only see her in mirrors”, she’d said.

I...I woke up screaming. And she was gone.

Laura got more and more reserved, more and more angry. She was furious at me for something. I thought...I thought my daughter was going mad. I thought she needed serious help. I was going to contact emergency help.

And then one day, she called me up. Cheerful. Happy. “Come up mum! The Door Lady wants to see you!”

I went upstairs. At this point, I had to know what was going on.

Inside, there was a yellow door. It wasn’t there. I know my daughter’s room. But there was a door. A yellow door. A door that had never been there before.

And the woman from my nightmare- the Door Lady- was there, holding it open.

She smiled at me, cheerfully, like I was a family friend. And waved. And asked how I was. I didn’t...She couldn’t be real, she was my daughter’s imaginary friend, imaginary friends aren’t real and..

Laura laughed. She laughed and said that The Door Lady had finally forgiven her for telling me about the other children. That she was going to let her through the door.

And it creaked open. On the other side was a brightly colored hallway. Like a children's play area, I remember thinking. Laura waved goodbye, gave me a hug and ran in. Just ran in.

The Door Lady turned, and her face was...warped. Like there were no bones and the skin was shifting. And she laughed, this shrieking, alien laugh. And the door slammed and she was gone.

I tried the handle but it wouldn’t open. I kicked and punched and it only felt like thin wood but it wouldn’t  _ break,  _ no matter what I did it wouldn’t  _ break _ , so I ran downstairs to get an axe and when I ran upstairs, it was gone. There were dents in the wall where I’d kicked it. But I hadn’t. I’d kicked the door.

Gabby- my wife, did I say that was who she was?- didn’t believe me, she thought I’d gone mad, everyone thinks I’ve gone mad and they’re so  _ sympathetic _ . Who can blame me? Poor Tabitha, losing her daughter, it’d make anyone lose their mind, but I  _ saw _ her. I  _ saw _ the Door Lady take my little girl.

So I went to you. You must.. you must know what she is. You must know how to defeat her. What is it? Some kind of ritual? A magic artefact? A chant? She must have a weakness. You know this. You  _ have  _ to know this.

Please. Please tell me.

I just want my daughter back.

**Statement Ends**

Ha!

How did I do, It-Knows-You? Did I get the right amount of portentous _whining_ and _pouting_ and _self-flagellation_ in my voice?

I should steal Jon’s thunder more often, I think!

Oh, Little Laura. You know, I was actually thinking of  _ being _ her! I’ve been a child before. So easy to trust, so easy to make _unnerving_. If Jon  _ had _ died, I think I would have done. 

But he’s alive, so the personal touch is better for now, I think. Best not to change faces too often.

Heaven forbid anyone get  _ suspicious,  _ after all!

Jon, Jon, Jon. How much of a monster do you think I am? You don’t think I’m Helen but you don’t think I’m _not_ Helen , do you? Do you think this would sway you?

Yes. I’m sure it would. It’s _silly_ , really. You know I kill. You know I do worse then kill. But a trusting, innocent child lured behind a door by a monster? Well. _That_ might just touch a nerve, mightn't it? Haha!

Luckily, you can’t hear this. Not right now.

Oh, Jon. Always running into things that will kill you. Always making this so  _ easy _ . Just a kind word and a fake smile and there you are, hurling yourself at an evil circus.

You’ll have the marks in no time at  _ this  _ rate.

It’s so  _ relieving _ now I’m not Michael. He’d leave this lying around to taunt, to hurt. And he'd ruin everything with his petty stolen hatred.

But I’m pure again now. Thank you for that too, Jon. I haven’t found a face that fit so well in a long time.

Ah! Can you hear that? Someone's coming to interrupt the Watcher’s Crown. I wonder who?

No matter. It’s time for  _ dear old Helen _ , the I nstitute’s  _ friendly monster _ , to come help out. Always almost too late. It’s pitiful, really. Melanie screams and Basira judges and Martin hides but they all trust  _ me. _

The Door Lady. Ha! I like that.

I like that a  _ lot _ .

Still, best you don’t learn this story, Jon. Sorry Tabitha. No magic spell for  you .

If it makes you feel better, you’re far, far too late.

We both know Lauren’s been gone a very long time now.

[RECORDING DESTROYED]

  
  



	5. The Not!Them: Missing Piece

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Canon Typical Not!Them, isolation, mental illness, transphobia.

**Statement Number #0000107. Statement of Abigail Green, regarding…”being forgotten”. Original Statement given 01/07/2000. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.**

**Statement Begins.**

It was just a fucking table. Just a table.

I’d picked it up...I don’t remember. I’d picked it up, and it was cheap, and the men who offered me it even knocked the price lower. So of course I took it. I needed furniture.

It was a  _ nice  _ table. Far too nice for the low price it was offered at. But it was still  _ just a table _ .

I’d just woken up to get a glass of water when it actually happened. There was no build up, no signs. I just went downstairs and there they were. Sat on the table.

They looked like a man but...frayed? Like they were wearing the costume of a man, and it was wearing thin. I was wondering whether to call out or call for help or sneak away when they turned to look at me.

And they reached out. This long grey arm, grasping at me. It must have been attached to them, I suppose? It touched me and it grabbed...it grabbed something. I could feel it reaching into me and it hurt, it hurt in some soul-deep way. It was...I don’t know if you’ll get it, but it felt like how I feel whenever I get misgendered or dysphoric. That nauseating, gasping ache of not knowing if you are what you are, of knowing that the face in the mirror is _wrong_ and it isn’t _yours,_ that feeling like the floor has just gone out from under your who-you-are _._ But stronger. Like it was trying to erase me in a far more literal way.

I could barely breathe, I could barely move, but I tore my way free. There was this rip and the nauseous feeling got stronger and then I fell back gasping. It sat on the other side of the room and it looked...kind of like me, now? Except it didn’t, I didn’t look like that. Except it did. Somehow.

It looked surprised, and then it looked at me, and at its hands. And then it smirked. It sat on the table, still smiling. It didn’t try to stop me when I left.

I went to see my boyfriend. Liao Hong, you asked for full names. I knocked on his door, and he opened it. And he asked who I was.

I thought it was a joke, at first. He did joke around, and I even played along. But it soon became clear that, no, he  _ really didn’t _ know who I was. We’d been dating for three years, and he didn’t know who I was.

He said he was single, had been for years. He offered to contact help. I think he thought I was drunk. I shook my head and ran.

I went home and cried. All the photos in my house were gone. No,  _ I  _ was gone.  _ They  _ were there, but I wasn’t in them. Like someone had edited me out. Photos of empty fields and streets where I should be

And in the corner, the Not Me just kept smiling, sat on her table. I’d scream at her, plead with her, try to reason with her. But she’d just keep smiling. She didn’t answer. She just smiled.

It went through everyone. I was gone. My boss didn’t remember hiring me. My friends didn’t know me. Even...even my  _ parents _ didn’t know me. My own parents.

They said they’d never got round to having children.

I haven’t even been evicted. I don’t think the landlord knows I’m here to demand rent from. I can just take food from stores, and no-one notices. I don’t need to worry about the mundanities.

Just the loneliness. And the fear.

I’d sit there, calling everyone I knew and hearing them get confused, or sympathetic, or angry. And in the corner, the Not Me just smiled. I knew what she wanted.

She was waiting for me to ask her to finish the job.

You know who did remember me? Beth Floor. Not my dearest friends, not my loving boyfriend, not my mum and dad. Beth. I’d had a nasty break up with her, and we were still very cold, but too intermeshed socially to fully stop seeing each other.

She recognised me, in the street. She gave an awkward, icy hello and then left. I don’t...how do I call her? “How do you know who I am?” “Why do  _ you _ know who I am?”

How do you even start that conversation?

There are no photos of me anymore. None. I was so alone, and what could I do? I tried everything. I even called Beth, but she didn’t answer. I knew she wouldn’t.

And that thing is still there, smiling.

I found a photograph of me. A polaroid. Is it the only evidence left that I ever existed in the world? It might be. I’ve attached it. I need someone else to know I exist.

I looked at the table. I looked up the delivery men. I looked it all up. Nothing. It’s just a table from a normal east end delivery company.

It’s just a table.

I’m giving this. I don’t know what happens next. But I’m so lonely. I’m so alone.

After this, I’m going to the Not Me. And I’m telling it it won.

I’ll let it do whatever it wanted to do.

It can’t hurt worse than being forgotten,

**Statement ends.**

Despite the evocative language, this statement has turned out to be  _ thoroughly _ debunked. Miss Green showed up a week after this statement and apologised for wasting our time. Apparently she’d suffered a severe stress induced breakdown over work and was now seeking therapy.

A follow up at the time by then research assistant Fiona Law confirmed that the loved ones mentioned here did indeed remember her, and that they were able to provide photographic proof of her existence. She didn’t report anything worth noting about the tables at Miss Green’s house. 

So that’s that sorted out. A woman has a breakdown, imagines her friends have forgotten her, and recovers. Simple.

Except, in that case, why isn’t it recording on my computer?

There’s...there must be  _ something _ supernatural about this. But  _ what _ ? It’s debunked. We know it’s debunked. Everything is consistent with a mental breakdown, exactly as Green said.

I can’t follow up with the statement giver- she went missing 4 months after this statement. Elizabeth Floor, the mentioned ex-girlfriend, was convicted, having attempted to attack Green earlier in unclear circumstances. Tragic, but not  _ supernatural _ . People kill their exes all the time.

So what am I missing here?

I checked with everyone and luckily, Sasha offered to investigate this case further. She took the file and photograph, just in case they’re useful. I’ll wait to see if she finds anything, I suppose. For now, all I can do is wait.

But I’m sure there’s something I’m missing here. Something staring me right in the face.

I...won’t be putting this one in the debunked file. I know I should. It’s all explained. Thoroughly so.

But I can’t help but feel that if I look at this enough something will...pop out. Stand out. I simply  _ know _ there’s an important piece of the puzzle here somewhere.

I just need to figure out what.

I suppose I can only hope Sasha comes back with her findings soon.

**Recording ends.**


	6. Jurgen Leitner: Paying Respects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Canon-typical Hunt bullshit, accidental misgendering.
> 
> Yes, I know he's not an Avatar but I had the idea ok?

**Statement Number # 0060212. Statement of Malcolm Lord, regarding the heroic actions of... _sigh_** **. Regarding the heroic actions of a man called Jurgen Lietner. Statement given 03/11/89. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist.**

**Statement Begins.**

It started with that weird book. “The Song Of Trees”.

I don’t remember buying it, or finding it, or being given it. It was just...in my house. It was this collection of short poems. Now, I’ve never been a huge fan of poetry. I’m certainly not after this! So I don’t know who would have left it for me.

But there it was, on my table. It looked like a blank black book at first, except the title, but if you looked closely at the front cover, it was an image of a forest. The trees were a very dark grey, almost unnoticeable, but you could see if you looked close. It was an unnerving experience.

I asked the wife and she said she hadn’t seen it before, nor had my brother, nor had anyone I know. And asking at the local library didn’t have anyone recognize it. So I supposed it was mine. A new book. I’d give it a quick read, before I gave it to a charity shop or something.

It was more engrossing than I expected. The first poem was about a man walking into the woods. Some fairy kind of thing. Nothing much happened, but the meter was...enthralling. Fast, frantic. I read it, and then I looked at the cover. And I swear, the trees were a tad more noticeable. Just slightly. It must have been because I knew they were there to look for, I told myself, and then I went to sleep.

That morning, the plants in the garden had grown. Hugely grown. It was a tangled mass. I mowed them down of course, but it took a while. Like they were too thick to cut. Even though they weren’t.

It was a weekend, so I didn’t have much to do after I’d mowed them down. I was tired, and I read another poem in the book. Now the man was lost in the woods, and couldn’t find the path. It actually made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up! It shouldn’t have affected me so much, it was just a poem and I pride myself on being a sensible man. But it did. Especially after I looked out and saw the fresh-mowed lawn already beginning to grow back.

Still, however uneasy I was, it was like I couldn’t stop myself reading it. Every day, I’d read this man getting more lost in the woods. One poem, he heard a howl. Far off in the woods.

The next day, it looked like something had clawed at the door all night. And the trees on the cover were stark white. If you looked closely, you could see something else in the trees.

Now, I was scared. I was increasingly sure that reading the book would kill me, but I couldn’t stop. I read more poems, and with each one I saw more. Shapes trailing me when I went to work. Growls from outside my room at night. Footprints in the yard. And the garden, now completely overgrown. The grass sometimes moved, as if something was moving through it. I didn’t dare go out to check.

My wife talked to me about it- I’d been acting distant, and cold, and she wanted to know what was happening. I could have hidden it, I suppose. I felt the urge to hide it. But I told her. I told her everything. And she nodded.

She’d always believed in crystals and cards and things like that. I never agreed but we all need faith in something, don’t we?So I didn’t say anything, and lucky I didn’t, because it meant she was surprisingly accepting of a cursed book. She looked out at the overgrown forest that was our garden, and we saw a shape move in the trees. I don’t think we had trees before.

She decided we had to destroy the book.

Now, I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought of this before. But every time I tried I...it felt like a bad idea. The creature in the book was chasing me through the stanzas, but it felt like the book was trapping it. Like if I destroyed it, that creature could get out. It would be free to hurt more than me.

I told her this, and she said the book was warping my mind to make me protect it. And maybe she was right, looking back, but at the time I was sure it shouldn’t be destroyed. I was so sure I was close to running away to protect, and she was close to attacking to take it off me for my own good. I don’t know what would have happened if the door hadn’t rang just then.

The man at the door was pale and blonde, wearing a suit that likely cost more then my car. Objectively, I suppose, he was kind of on the large side and getting on in years, but...well. I remember him fondly. He smiled, and held out his hand, and introduced himself as “Jurgen Leitner''. He asked to be shown “the problem”.

Well, what could I do? We had no better plan, so we pointed him to the book. He didn’t didn’t touch it, but he looked at it like an expert. He was all business, and asked about what had been happening, and we told him. After we explained everything, he nodded.

“As it said. The Distant Howling” he said, more to himself then anyone else. Then he turned, and called out for a “Salesa''. This tall young man with dark skin came in. He was holding a leather satchel and another book. This one was bright colours, almost shifting patterns. “To Dance The Swirling Dance”. He placed the book in the bag as Leitner watched.

“There! The Twisting Deceit should mislead the hunter, until a more permanent solution is found.” I asked what he meant, and he smiled again “Nothing you need to worry about. Just know the problem is solved. I’ll need to buy it off you, I think. Is this enough?” He wrote a check, and oh. It was  _ more _ than enough.

Him and Salesa left, and the house felt...empty. Safe. I mowed the lawn easily enough, and we never saw anything after that. Whatever was coming for me through those poems, it was gone.

I never saw the man who saved my life again. I never learnt who he was, or how he knew we needed help. But I remember him. My friends think I’m crazy. But I know what I saw.

And however silly it may seem, I’ll still sometimes pour out a drink for the heroic Jurgen Leitner.

**Statement Ends.**

Well.

It’s expected that this kind of statement would come up, of course. Leitner collected books from a number of places, which must have included taking them away from victims. He would have helped some people. It’s to be expected. He can’t have only caused destruction and suffering. I knew that..

A follow up check of Mr Lord and his now husband revealed that they are, indeed, happy and healthy, with no further supernatural phenomena since their encounter with Lietner and Salesa. Meaning whatever method Leitner used to bind this book...must have worked fine. It didn’t even come back for them when the library collapsed. So that’s...good. I wasn’t expecting some catastrophic mistake. I’m glad they’re safe, naturally.

I suppose he must have used an Eye-related book to find out what was happening. Which...worked out, I suppose. No negative effects from that, at least not for the Lords. Probably on some poor assistant although I don’t...know that, admittedly.

So, it seems that’s...that’s sorted. What happened here is Jurgen Leitner did a genuine act of goodness and saved two men’s lives. Effectively paid off their mortgage too, I understand.. Like I said, it must have happened while he built his library. It’s been duly noted for archiving purposes.

So that’s that. Statement done.

...

_ Motherfucking  Jurgen Leitner… _

**Recording Ends**


	7. Peter Lukas- Abandon Ship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: canon typical Lonely Manifestations, memory loss, suicide and suicidal ideation, being lost at sea.

**Statement number 0181005. Statement of Marcin Ogorek, regarding his discovery of an abandoned ship in the mid Atlantic. Original statement given October the Fifth, 2018. Audio recording by Elias Bouchard...oh, to hell with it. Audio Recording by Jonah Magnus** **, founder of the Magnus Institute.**

**Statement Begins.**

In the modern world, it’s very hard for a vessel to be truly abandoned.

There's a constant web of radio and internet connections making sure that ships are always updating on where they are and able to quickly call out for help if anything goes wrong. Especially with major shipping. When a ship is nearly 1000 feet in length and carrying millions of pounds worth of cargo, well, people take a lot of precautions to make sure it doesn’t just go careening around the sea as it sees fit.

I’ve been captain of the _Cantosville_ for 20 years, I know this. Captain of a cargo freighter isn’t the most exciting job, but I liked it. The seas are calm and silent. That feeling of being far away from anyone. Of course, there were people on board with their own little politics and rivalries, just like any group of people. I tried not to get involved with them, stay the impartial observer.

I assume. I don’t quite remember any of them. I’m not sure I ever did.

Anyway. My point is that when the _Tundra_ came limping out the mist, I’d immediately known there was something very wrong. We’d not been told of any ships in this area, and I couldn’t think of any obvious paths it could be taking. It was drifting listlessly, just swirling around in the waves. We contacted them via radio, but all we picked up was static. It was strange though. It didn’t sound like simply a lack of reply. I’d _heard_ no reply, yes, but this was a flat, monotonous static that seemed...too loud for just white noise. I’d almost say that it was being actively sent in reply. That something was responding to our messages with empty static.

We contacted Search And Rescue, of course. And we could have moved on.

Logically, it seemed most likely the ship was either abandoned, the crew on a lifeboat somewhere, or they were simply all lost. There was no sign of movement on the ship. No sign of any electricity or working machinery. No responses to our hails. Most likely there was no-one to save, one way or another.

But there could have been. So we went to check. Who knows how long search and rescue might take, this far from land?

Paul...or Pete? Pierre? Anyway. One of the crew, he’d heard of the _Tundra_. Apparently, there were rumors about it. Apparently its smiling captain would offer work to stranded sailors, incredibly easy work for incredible pay. And those who took it were never seen again. I think I’d heard that story from someone too. Every subculture has their ghost stories.

Now, I’m not a superstitious man, but I know a story doesn’t have to be spooky to be horrific. If we’d stumbled onto some kidnapping ring? They were in no shape to stop us, by the looks of things. If there were kidnapped sailors, we had even more of a duty to help.

When we stepped on board, though, there were neither innocent sailors or kidnapping monsters. It was silent. The lifeboats were still there, untouched. The cargo crates were empty, but it didn’t look like they’d been looted. They’d rusted together. There’s no way that the ship had been abandoned long enough for that to happen- there was no sign of any other wear and tear.

We kept looking around. Nothing. The ship was empty. Completely abandoned. No signs of struggle or disaster. No signs of violence, no corpses. It was like everyone had just left. But the lifeboats were still there, and so were the life jackets

Still, a mystery for others to solve. I turned to my second mate to say that there was nothing more we could do here. Carla...or Carl? I don’t recall. Anyway I turned, and they were gone. And I couldn’t picture their face.

It wasn't just them. My whole crew were gone. I looked away, and they were gone. I couldn’t remember their names. I couldn’t remember their faces. I tried to call them, but all I got was that blank, monotonous static.

I went back to the _Cantosville_ to see if they’d simply returned there, given up earlier then I had.

It was gone. There’s no way something that big could have sank or drifted away without me noticing, but it was gone. I could see nothing but the sea, mirror smooth. Not a single wave. And the mist, growing ever thicker as I accepted that the ship really was gone. That I was trapped here

I was staring over the edge, deciding what to do, when I noticed the man behind me. Heavy set, dark skin and an antique whistle around his neck. A boatswain’s call, of all things.. This man- the Petty Officer, presumably- didn’t react to my greeting, just staring at the sea. So I grabbed him. “Who are you? Where’s my crew?”

He just shook his head, silently and impassively.

“Captain's gone..”

“I don’t care! Where’s my boat? My crew? What happened here?”

He gave a soft chuckle. It didn’t sound amused.

“Captain's gone. We’re all alone now. We’re all forsaken now”

He must have gone mad with grief, although who cares for their captain _that_ much I don’t know. I demanded it again, and he looked at me, his eyes cold and empty.

“Sorry sir. Captain’s orders.”

And he stood at the edge of the boat. I want to say he jumped. That he killed himself. But he didn’t.

He just looked at me, no expression, as the fog reached out and took him. And then he was gone.

I stood, staring into the thick mist. And the longer I looked, the more I realized the truth. I don’t talk to my family. I’ve never loved my wife. I don’t have friends. Colleagues, sure. But not friends.

It crushed me. But more then that, it...freed me. Because I realized. I looked into the mist, and I _realized_.

I’d not been sad when my crewmates vanished. I’d pretended I was, even to myself. But I didn’t even remember their names. And I had no desire to.

I’d worked hard all my life, rising through the ranks. And this is where it would end, aboard this ship. This ghost ship in a mirror-glass ocean. I knew, somehow. If there was anyone on shore who I cared about, or who cared about me? I could escape.

I didn’t bother to waste my time trying to think of someone. I just climbed on the edge, like the Boatswain had. And I watched the fog swirl around me. The water below was so still and dark. And beautiful.

And then the light shone, cutting through the mist and night. And I realized search and rescue were here. It had been 13 hours.

No trace of the _Cantosville_ was ever found, nor of my crewmates, nor of any of the crew of the _Tundra_. My bosses are undecided on whether I lost my mind and sank the ship, or was the subject of a tragic accident. I don’t think it matters what they settle on though. If they do blame it on me, I don’t think it will matter.

I don’t think my inability to remember my crewmates comes from the ship. And I don’t think I escaped. I don’t think I tried to.

I’m heading to the coast after I give this statement. The _Tundra_ is still out there, I know that. Still drifting that mirror-glass sea.

And it is in need of a new captain.

**Statement ends.**

Oh Peter.

They always were the chink in your armor, weren’t they? No friends, no lovers, a family in only the most technical sense. But you cared about your crew, as much as _you_ could care about someone. A secret you kept from all.

Not from me, of course. I assume you thought the mist hiding your mind meant I couldn’t read you like a book? Ha! I wonder, would you be glad to know your crew followed you into the Lonely? Or horrified?

It doesn't matter now, of course.

He was lucky in a way, Mr Ogorek. To join our esteemed group so late in the game. The Tundra was spoken of in rumors and sailors tales, until it became a thing of fear in its own right. An avatar of metal and glass. And when you died, it chose a new captain.

I wonder what seas it will sail, once my great work is complete?

And of course here ends, at long last. the story of Peter Lukas. His crew dead, his protege treacherous, his ship sailing under a new captain. Erased from the world.  
  
And soon, Jon will need to feed, and this will all be over. 

Oh yes.

As the final statement of the old world, this was a fine choice indeed.

Goodbye Peter.

I will not remember you.

**Recording Ends.**


	8. Jared Hopworth- The Meat Market

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (CW: Sexualisation,sexual harassment, dysphoria, implied eating disorder, aging, gaslighting, canon-typical Flesh Manifestations)

**Statement Number #0181004. Statement of Rosemary White regarding a series of dates with Jared Hopworth. Original statement given Third of September, 2013. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist.**

**Statement begins**

I didn’t want to try online dating at first. You know the kind of men you get on there. Creeps and weirdos at best. But after the last nasty breakup, I was desperately lonely, and I wasn’t getting any younger. I looked in the mirror and I swear I could  _ see  _ the crows legs spreading. So, I felt, why not?

The first...dozens of messages were crude pick up lines and disgusting pictures. Exactly as I’d expected. No-one I’d found had much to offer, and I was close to just giving up. And then I found Jared.

Jared Hopworth was... I’ll admit, the thing that first attracted me was that the man was _ ripped _ . Like,  _ bodybuilder  _ ripped. And handsome! It only got better as I looked through the actual profile. He ran his own business apparently! A gym! And most of his answers were of a straightforward, no-nonsense man. I didn’t think there was any editing or deceptive camera tricks in his pictures. He really was that huge.

So I swiped right. 

He responded quickly, and we got into a conversation. He was nice. Talked about how he wasn’t interested in just skin deep beauty, that he was interested in what’s inside. Cliche, but it’s better then “show me your feet”. And he was very handsome. So I offered him a date. Not near mine, somewhere with a lot of people. I kept safe

He was even bigger in person.

His face looked slightly different, and his voice sounded...weird. Maybe some kind of disorder? But he had the body of a weightlifter and the face of a sports star, so I could overlook a strange voice. He was wearing a suit that he’d clearly made himself- I asked him and he laughed. Apparently, he’d had to take up sewing. Few clothes fit his size. I said I’d known how it felt, when I was heavier. He smiled at that.

The date went well. He was athletic, knew a lot about sports. He was surprisingly funny, once you got past the voice defect, and he complimented my looks. Talked about how thin I was now, how young I looked. It was clearly a line but, frankly, it had been long enough since I was complimented I took it.

We had a nice night, and said goodbye. I think I looked different in the mirror when I went back. Like it was warped somehow. But only for me.

I went on more dates with him. He talked about athleticism and how good I looked. He wasn’t a complex man but then, I’d dated plenty of pretentious men, so i didn’t mind. He’d eat his steak and talk plainly. And I’d go back, and look in the mirror.. Next to him, the tall athletic young man. The man who worked out every day. How could I possibly match that? How could I? I’d never taken that much care of my appearance, and seeing someone who did made me so acutely aware of it.

I talked to him about it, in the end. He nodded, sympathetically. As a trainer, he knew some dieting things, some training things. And I tried them. They felt good. But I don’t know how much they worked.

I was looking worse and worse. None of my friends would say it, they were too polite, but I knew I was. Only Jared was honest with me. And then, he said he had a way to help me properly. To give me the body I always wanted. And… I saw myself, reflected in my spoon. So I went back to his.

He lived above his gym, apparently. But we didn’t go up. We went into a back room, and downstairs. And it took me a minute to realize what the walls were.

It was just...just meat. Just a wall of meat. There were things in the room, random collections of body parts smiling at me, the ones who had mouths. They looked happy to see me. I hadn’t met any of Jared’s friends before, but I guess he’d told them about me.

He took off his shirt, and I realized it was the first time he’d done it around me. He was so muscular but...twisted. Limbs reached from his ribs and stomach, wrapped around him. I swear there were extra  _ mouths _ . His face was still handsome, but warped. Like the bones underneath writhed. 

I tried to scream, or to run, but I couldn’t think. I didn’t know what was happening, but he took my hands, and his handsome, writhing face was oddly comforting.

He said he’d swiped right because I’d resonated. I’d “been a seed in the mortal garden”. He laughed slightly at that, and apologized for the snobby terms. I was in touch with meat. Like him. All he had to do was show me that I could reach out and embrace it. And be better.

“What do you mean?”, I asked, and he smiled, and pointed to the dripping walls.

I looked at the meat and I saw…myself. Beautiful. So thin, so young. Just bones. And what could be a better partnership than muscle and bone?

It was beautiful.  _ I _ could be beautiful. I just had to step into it. Just that. It would be so easy.

But...it was wrong. For all I hated my old, fat, ugly body? It was my body. And this...this was  _ wrong _ . Maybe it was better. But it wasn’t who I was.

I ran. He called out to me, and I realized how much stronger he must be then me, how much faster. But he didn’t try to stop me. If anything, he sounded confused. “You belong to the flesh”, he said, as if baffled that I didn’t get this simple fact. “You’ve always belonged to the flesh. Why don’t you...”.

And then I’d ran too far to hear him

I was worried he’d come after me. But he didn’t. I didn’t try to contact him, and he didn’t try to contact me. Apparently, whatever I’d rejected had ended everything. I hope it was the right call. I tell myself it was.

I tell myself I can’t hear that song far away, leading me to Jared.

To Jared, and a beautiful body of perfect bone.

**Statement Ends.**

As of our follow up, Miss White has avoided succumbing to the siren song of perfect bone or any similar thing, nor has she been subject to the mutilations of so many who cross Hopworth’s path. She works as a hairdresser, has a long-term boyfriend, and has been taking therapy to help with her relationship with her body. She still feels the call of the Flesh, but she’s simply resisted it.

If only I could have done the same thing. Who knows how much…

Anyway. It seems likely that this was an act of resonance. Between Miss Jane’s dysmorphia and the connection dating culture has with the Flesh, with treating people like a piece of meat? It seems likely the Boneturner was simply drawn to it. To prey on someone almost instinctively, as a thing of dysphoria.

Or...maybe it wasn't that. Maybe this was just Jared. Maybe he really  _ was  _ just lonely. He wanted someone to walk the path of an avatar with him, and he saw someone else who could do that. I can see the manipulation present in Miss White’s statement, but I’m pretty sure we can’t blame manipulative pick-up techniques and gaslighting on Viscera.

…

I think about Martin. We don’t speak, and I wish I could blame that solely on the Lonely. Melanie hates me, Basira barely tolerates me, Georgie’s cut ties. I understand loneliness. But I also see all the lingering effects that Jared's “courtship” had.

Perhaps it’s projection, but I deeply hope that Rosemary White continues to resist that perfect body. Some paths are better walked alone.

Unlike the Boneturner, at least I can say I’m human enough to realise that.

RECORDING ENDS.


	9. Annabelle Cane: Far From The Tree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Abuse, abelism, neglect, violation of privacy, parental abandonment and death, canon typical web triggers.

**Statement of Rosemary Cane, regarding her relationship with her daughter Annabelle. Statement taken directly from subject by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist, 17th of August, 2018.**

**Statement begins.**

_ I’m a good mother. _

_ I know that a lot of people don’t believe me. After that media circus looking for the cause of the "Surry University Killer", a lot of people have opinions. They call me controlling, even abusive, but when  _ you  _ have eight children and a husband who barely cares, then you can talk to me about how to raise my children. I’m sorry for being defensive. But I need to set the scene, and you wouldn’t be the first person to judge me. _

_ I met Dennis at uni. We were young and fell in love, and we got married, and were always happy until the children came along. Then he decided he had better things to do. And it was up to me to raise them. _

_ So yes, I had to be controlling. What else could I do? I got the children to behave. To do what they were told. Maybe I had to be harsher than other parents. Maybe I had to be cruel to kind, sometimes. _

_ But as I said, when you have eight children, you can talk to me about how you do it. But I had to control them. _

_ And I  _ was  _ a good mother. I raised good children. _

_ Annabelle was a good child. _

_ Not like Elizabeth with her violence, or Joseph, with his disobedience. She did what she was told. She respected her elders.  _

_ She wasn't perfect of course. Always so needy. One time she even ran away, and came back rambling about spiders. Ever since then, she’d have her little panic attacks whenever one showed up. Scream until someone took it out. _

_ Annoying, honestly. Like I didn’t have enough stress. _

_ But still, she was at least trying. She did what she was told, and knew when to leave me alone. _

_ And I was proud when she went to university. _

_ She only called back occasionally, to her own mother, so I had to make sure she kept me updated. I found out about the girlfriend- not that I’m judging, of course- and the parties. I managed to make her dial them back a bit. For her own good. She was too quiet and vulnerable for that kind of thing. And I knew about the psychology experiment. I didn’t care about the details, until it was too late. _

_ I’m sure you read about the massacre _

_ To see my daughter paraded as some...psycho killer. Like my daughter would turn out to be some kind of monster, like she’d… _

_ I knew her. She was my flesh and blood. And except for her hang up about spiders, she’d never been crazy. Never. _

_ I kept defending her after she vanished. I...well, I assumed someone had… _

_ I didn’t want her memory to be a killer. Not when she must have been a victim. _

_ And I mourned her, and tried to restore her memory. _

_ But then she contacted me. _

_ Anonymously, from a private number. But she could prove it was her. She said she had enemies after the incident, so he had to stay private. Which I thought would make sense, if she was framed. But even so, she wanted to meet up. To show me something. _

_ It was an abandoned house, and I won’t lie. I thought it might have been a trap. But...well, if it was my daughter, I couldn't just abandon her _

_ I opened the door, and there she was. She was wearing a heavy raincoat with the hood pulled up. And she seemed a lot thinner. I think some of her joints were off. But it was her. She greeted me, sounding far too happy for the situation, and she asked me to come inside. _

_ I asked her what happened, and she laughed, and said she thought I already knew. I said I’d figured out a lot of it, and she smiled. _

_ “I’ll explain the rest then. Come upstairs, mum.” _

_ Well, of course, I said. And she walked into the attic. _

_ The attic was dusty, full of televisions and radios. Clearly abandoned for a while. I was ready to ask her what I was meant to be seeing. _

_ And then I heard the movement. My eyes adjusted to the dark, and I saw them. _

_ Big, black spiders, hundreds of them. Crawling all over the walls and floor. I expected Annabelle to have one of her panic reactions, but she didn't. She just watched me. She looked expectant. Like she was waiting for something. _

“ _ See?” _

_ I looked closer, and I saw the spiders were spinning silk. Not just webs, but long, complex networks. Reaching into the electronics. And then they all switched on at once. _

_ Screens flickering with strange images, radios giving off these strange, garbled broadcasts. They seemed like some kind of code, obscure symbolism, all given in an authoritative, cold voice. _

_ My daughter’s. _

_ I turned, demanding to know what on earth this was. And that’s when I saw she’d taken off the coat. _

_ She had eight eyes, eight moving limbs. And there was a crack down her face. Inside wasn’t blood or flesh but...white. Like webs. _

_ She stood there. Her voice was calm, her smile small. But I could feel that excitement, as she started rambling. _

“ _ The Mother Of Puppets. It’s touched you already, remember? You just need to accept it. To embrace it.” _

_ She looked at me with that...she expected an answer. But I had no idea what she was talking about. What a "mother of puppets" was, or when it was meant to have touched me. _

_ All I knew was that, whatever this was, she was no longer my daughter. _

_ I don’t know if it had replaced her, or if she’d become this..thing. But she was no my daughter. _

_ I told her that I had no idea what she was talking about. That I had never been touched by whatever did this to her. That I didn’t want to be involved in whatever hellish shit this so-called mother of puppets is. _

_ Her smile dropped. _

“ _ But.. I know you… you have to have felt it. You  _ had  _ to.” _

_ I didn’t know what was happening or what in the hell she was talking about, but I knew it wasn’t something Annabelle would do. She was a good child. Quiet. Obedient. And too scared of spiders. _

_ So I told her. I told her that she was no daughter of mine. When I stormed past, I was worried that she could grab me, that the webs might trap me, that the radio might tell me to stop. _

_ But they didn’t. _

_ I went downstairs and left. I looked back, I’ll admit. She was stood at the top of the stairs, illuminated by those flickering screens. _

_ I couldn’t see her facial expression, her hood was up again. But she had only two arms. And I think she might have been crying. _

_ But I left. I had to. _

_ She hasn’t contacted me since. _

_ That's why I came to you. To tell you this. _

_ You seem like someone who needs to know. I’m sure that you have someone rambling about that massacre in here. So I want it on record. _

_ She wasn't crazy. She wasn’t a killer. _

_ And the monster that’s walking around isn’t her. _

_ That's everything, unless you want to know anything else? _

_ Huh? _

_ No, I’ve never lived on the coast. _

_ Why? _

_ STATEMENT ENDS. _

Well, this is an interesting statement. I don’t know what Annabelle was doing with radios and televisions, but the content is almost less important than the context. 

I have no doubt that this was planned by Annabelle’s plan. I can’t imagine her just letting her own mother walk in and bare her soul unless she wanted to. 

But why? I can't see her or her goals, so why?

The obvious answer is to humanise her. The daughter, cruelly abandoned by her mother. I...can relate, of course. I never knew my parents, and my maternal figure was far from loving. It would be an obvious way to forge a connection. Ready to exploit when we finally meet. An callous manipulation tactic, to hide the web with crocodile tears and sob stories.

Perhaps she set up the whole tableau. Perhaps it was all an act to inspire sympathy. Maybe that wasn’t even the real Rosemary Cane, just some poor fool compelled to give a false statement. The truth hidden from the Eye with webbing

But. Well.

Maybe it’s a more  _ personal  _ reason. Even Annabelle Cane is still human. Nominally. She’s not just a puppet of the Web.

I would assume she must know how rare the entities are, but...wishful thinking makes fools of us all. The urge to justify a loved one, to blame something else for what they did. Even the Web isn't immune. And if that is it, I can only assume you’re listening somehow. And I can Know this information. Which means either you no longer care, and thus see no reason to hide it, or you want me to find out...or it really is a terrible truth you don't want to face.

Either way- No. I'm sorry, but no.

Your mother was  _ never  _ touched by the Web. Her manipulation, her controlling nature, her abuse- it was only ever human. Resentment, untreated trauma, narcissist tendencies inflamed by stress. All the normal reasons. It was all her.

When she saw the Web, she only saw a monster. 

I don’t know if this statement was brought here by the shadowy puppeteer pulling unseen strings, or the hurt daughter desperate to find an excuse for her mother’s neglect. It's probably the former, of course. This is likely another lie, another clever manipulation.

But just in case?

I'm sorry.

Your pain was only ever the fault of humans.

And now the last trace of your human life is gone from you. In truth, she always was.

...

Hmm.

I suppose her plan did succeed.

Whichever one it turns out to be.

RECORDING ENDS


End file.
